Saturday, September 3

CDP Top 30 Of All-Time ('08-'10) - #28.

#28 - 'Free MySpace Poetry (Part 2).'(Originally published 3/30/09.)

Are you a sensitive boy or girl on MySpace? Are you pining for that perfect piece of personal poetry or private prose that will perpetuate your pathetic pomposity? Do you want to appear emotional and deep, but just don't have the effort and creativity?

Look no further!

We here at the CDP have once again composed Free MySpace Poetry just for you! Simply choose the piece that best represents your suffering, lifeless and eternally tortured soul; then copy, paste and watch the friend requests roll in!

Example #1 - Four-Line Sonnet (ABCB)

It hurts so much to love youWhich leads me to inquireWhenever we’re in bedMust you always set me on fire?Example #2 - Haiku (5-7-5)

Heart is on my sleeveFor you to do as you wishCan’t…breathe…Need…Heart…Back.

Example #3 - Limerick (AABBA)

I work at a self-service stationAnd I’ll admit, it’s a weak occupationBut I fill up for free, and the coffee’s on meDuring our Grand Opening celebration.

Example #4 - Rubaiyat (AABA)

You took off your clothes in front of meAnd I saw everything I had been waiting to seeIf I could ask just one question, I would sayGrandma, why are you doing this to me?

Example #5 - Cinquain (ABABB)

When I poked you on Facebook, you were one-of-a-kindI knew you’d never bother me with meme’s and appsBut now it’s six months later, and there’s something on my mindWhy do you always write me in all caps?WHY DO YOU ALWAYS WRITE ME IN ALL CAPS???Example #6 - Terza rima (ABA BCB...)

Kiss me before this night is throughAnd I’ll never forget it as long as I liveIt’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m rockin’ with you

Even though you have nothing left to giveJust wrap your arms around me, Dick ClarkOh, that’s right; forgot about your stroke. You forgive?

Example #7 - Ottava Rima (ABAB AB CC)

Tina Fey, you really have to stop calling meFor the good of my household and marriageI fully understand your desire to make love to meIn the back of a horse-drawn carriage

But believe me; I’m telling you seriouslyMy wife will insist and disparageShe has Pampered Chef knives that are sharper than skinAnd will see to it that you’re never seen again.Example #8 - Petrarchan Sonnet (A8BBA8 A8BBA8 C8DE C8DE)

Let’s close down the bar togetherWe’ll flip the chairs and strike the lightsDrunkenly stumble into the dead of nightAnd wander around forever.

Friday, September 2

CDP Top 30 Of All-Time ('08-'10) - #29.

#29 - 'Give Me All The Pomade You Have.'(Originally published 3/31/10.)

It took me until about the age of 20 before I realized that you could get your hair cut at places that were stationed outside of a mall. As a man that didn’t pay attention or care too much about the quality or well-being of his hairstyle, I had always just gone to the easiest, cheapest place.

For the better part of a decade, this destination was exclusively Cost Cutters.

Going to Cost Cutters deep into in your teen years feels similar to the last few Halloweens you celebrate before you start to become acutely aware of your age. You begin to take notice of the clientele around you; notice the relative age of the stylists versus the customers. Once the realization hits that maybe you should start frequenting a different barber (say, the Master Cuts by the Aqua Massage kiosk, perhaps), it feels akin to being naked in public. All you want to do is disappear.

I remember the last time I ever set foot in a Cost Cutters. I was alone, reading a magazine in the red-and-yellow waiting area (it always looked like a McDonalds in there), when a grown man came shuffling through the door. He looked to be in his mid-to-late 40’s, wiry-thin with glasses and a ragged outfit on.

“Hello,” he said to the pre-teen working the counter. “Is Sarah working today?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, “But Sarah has the day off.”

“Good,” the man muttered back, turning slowly to his left to reveal a massive bald spot that was seemingly gouged out of his scalp by accident. Presumably by Sarah. He took a seat next to me and exhaled deeply.

He was defeated. He didn't care. He was me in ten years.

Without making a scene, I gently set the Store Copy of People magazine on the table and hit the road. It had been a decent enough relationship, but at that moment, I knew that Cost Cutters and I were officially through.

Thursday, September 1

CDP Top 30 Of All-Time ('08-'10) - #30.

#30 - 'The Hole To Hell.'(Originally published 1/13/10.)

"Describe A Favorite Childhood Friend, And Some Things You Did With Him Or Her."

When I was a kid, it's safe to assume that my best friend was my cousin, Scott. We had one of those relationships where we read each others' mind; could crack each other up just by looking at each other. We made each other funnier; our ideas were better when we worked on them together. Our projects and aspirations legendary in our own minds. We spoke our own language; invented our own slang. Created a world that was isolated, yet contained pretty much everything that made me happy at the time.

I was never more creative than when I worked on something with Scott. We wrote songs. Acted out sketches. Recorded ourselves announcing baseball and football games. We would play basketball until it was pitch-black outside. It was always 100%, and it was never work or forced, because it was always fun as hell. We did this for over a decade until the rigors of impending adulthood forced us out of our cocoons and into the real world. I still miss it sometimes.

One of my earliest memories of myself and Scott was when we were small children, playing in my sandbox in the backyard of my first house. The sandbox in question was an old tractor tire that had been filled with no more than 18 inches of sand. It was on this day that me and Scott decided that we were going to dig our way to Hell. That's right; we were going to be the first humans in recorded history to actually dig a hole so deep that it would pop us straight through to the center of the Earth. A place where, as Catholics, we believed Hell was.

Digging was easy at first; we used an old Tupperware cup to do most of the dirty work. The trouble started once we reached the 18-inch line: we were now through the sand, digging into the soil of my backyard. The soil was black; our town had a ton of bedrock that more or less forced you to use dynamite if you wanted to put a basement in your home. The hole at this point couldn't have been more than two feet deep and 6 inches wide.

I stuck my hand inside of it to check the temperature.

"It's getting hot!" I shouted gleefully. "We're almost there!"

Scott's on the left, I'm on the right. Unfortunately, we never made it to Hell.